


The Draw of Violence

by thornsonthepath



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Ancient Elves (Dragon Age), Ancient dwarves, Angst, Arlathan, Character Development, Death, F/F, F/M, Grief, Hunting, Implied Past Relationships, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lore Interpretations, Memory Loss, Modern Girl in Thedas, Other, Politics, Possession, Pre-Dragon Age: Origins, Realistic, Research, Separations, Slavery, Slow Burn, Spirit Documentation, Spirits, Torture, anger problems, as realistic as magic and dragons can get, fluff too, kind of, really slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-01-25 05:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12523556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thornsonthepath/pseuds/thornsonthepath
Summary: Morgan is ripped from Earth and finds herself born as Wrath in the age of the Evanuris. Brutal and violent, the new spirit finds itself right at home in Elvhenan.





	1. Rebirth

**Author's Note:**

> New writer with thick skin. Love it or hate it, I always appreciate feedback. I will update either weekly or bi-weekly, depending on the amount of writer's block.

Morgan entered and left this world screaming.

She was told by her mother that when she was born, she howled. There were no tears, no whimpers for a warm touch, only a screech that tore through her mother’s heart and earned the chuckle of the attending midwife. “She’s going to be a handful,” the woman playfully warned, as she placed the wrathful child on her mother’s breast. The comfort and nourishment of her mother’s body quickly soothed Morgan’s anger, and she soon after drifted off to sleep. Her red face calmed and her fists unclenched, as she was ushered into the peaceful dreams of newborns. Morgan was not special in this regard. She was not the first child to enter the world with fury in her heart, nor would she be the last.

Morgan left the world in a similar fashion, but without the steadfast pillar of a mother’s unconditional love. Instead, Morgan’s last moments in this world were rocking her dead’s husband’s head in her lap, surrounded by the sickly-sweet scent of his brain matter covering the dark wool of her sweater. Morgan dully recalled about how he had given her that sweater. She stared at her husband’s face, marred by that gaping wound above his right ear. He had loved her in that sweater. He said it matched her eyes. 

In front of Morgan, two figures towered over her. The bigger of the two flitted here and there, with no real rhyme or reason to his movements. He wrung his hands and would occasionally jerk his head over to the dead man lying on the floor. With this look, he would mutter some incoherent swearing before resuming his restless pacing. Morgan couldn’t exactly make out what he was saying. The ringing in her ears overpowered any vulgarity. 

The smaller of the two men held a gun. He was waving it expressively, trying to convey a point to the bigger man. He gestured toward her quite often. Morgan dimly registered words were spoken but the shrill whine took precedence. The man with the gun was pleading with the bigger man, that much was certain. Whatever he was saying though, appeared to slow the agitated man. He stopped his erratic movements and gestured toward Morgan one more time. With that, he threw up his hands in frustration and began to leave the apartment. This did not please the smaller man. As soon as the large man’s back was turned, he fired a second shot.

As the large man pitched forward, the second crack and wafting smell of gunpowder brought Morgan out of her fugue state. Several emotions flitted through her heart at once. Fear, despair, bewilderment, each scrambled for attention in the swirling mass of confusion. However, pure and unadulterated hatred powered to the front of her consciousness and she felt the seething anger encompass her entirely.

Morgan pushed her husband’s body to the side, and threw herself at the man with the gun, still staring at the spot where his companion now lay crumpled on the ground. She uttered an unholy screech, primal and raw, as she launched herself at the startled man, who had just enough time to squeeze the trigger in her direction. Whatever to be said of the small man with the gun, his aim was rarely off, and Morgan dropped to the ground in a heap. He then gingerly placed his gun in the hand of his fallen, former friend and fled. Morgan was alone, her ragged breaths filling the now still apartment. Despite her efforts, her vision began to darken and Morgan dimly realized that the faint sirens she heard off in the distance wouldn’t make it in time. Her last moments of consciousness in this waking world were spent clinging to those last sparks of rage flickering in her heart.

Morgan gradually felt a form of consciousness return to her. She did not know how long she had been without it but immediately knew something was terribly wrong. Any sensation of physical awareness was gone. She could not see any variation in the darkness, grope for any objects in the space around her, smell any change in the air. It was in that moment that Morgan may have gone completely mad, losing any semblance of self in the chaos of nothingness. Despite this those few dying embers of anger had survived and flared as if to make themselves known. Light had shown itself in the void and Morgan grasped it tightly in fear of being lost in the chasm. Gently she coaxed the sparks into a small flame, and allowed her anger to shine forth around her. This act came as naturally as breathing, and Morgan did not think to question it as light molded around what her body used to be. A faint outline of the woman that once was. With a body, albeit a bastardized form, she felt a somewhat return of herself. Her memories and feelings returned, but they were cold and were only notable in the sense that they were there. Even the anger that helped shape her was dull. Nevertheless, sensation returned to her. 

With this incorporeal form, Morgan took in her surroundings. All around her, as far as she could see in either direction, were cracks of some substance filling the space around her. These gaping wounds in the void shone with a green light. Some were so small that she could barely see the rays emitting from them. Others were so large that she could have stuck an ethereal arm through. Each one called to a distant sense of self, but something in the nothingness pulled and tugged her along so she continued to drift. Morgan could not say if she journeyed for eons or seconds. Her insubstantial form seemed to sputter slightly during the journey but otherwise remained intact. Eventually Morgan was drawn to the largest source of light she had seen so far.

The green light that shone from this breach was the most vivid yet, and had a faint hum that was certainly unfamiliar but not unpleasant. It was also the only one large enough for her to go through and Morgan felt an indescribable pull to the other side. Morgan drifted into the light, only to encounter wracking and unimaginable pain. 

Morgan had not felt pain like this, either in this place or her muted memories. It was if the light was feeding off everything that she once was. She immediately withdrew and noticed the change. The emotions that had lay stagnant in her consciousness were a little sharper. However, Morgan realized that with this exchange her memories had faded somewhat, and she felt like she was viewing them underwater. For the first time since she had arrived, Morgan felt the ensnaring tendrils of fear grip her mind. Tentatively she reached out toward the pulsing light once more, and felt the same unrelenting pain. Immediately she drew farther back. The farther Morgan moved away from the light, the duller she became once again. Even the smoldering embers of anger that made her were beginning to damper and her body seemed to become even more insubstantial than before. Clarity dawned upon Morgan at this new development. Whatever this thing was, it was her salvation to continue existing, as this place would slowly erode at her until she simply faded away. However, to do so would cost her nearly everything she was. Perhaps her very essence. She would no longer be the same once she walked that path, and she had no idea what was on the other side.

Morgan drifted around the breach, hesitating as she stared at the brilliant light. She contemplated the fear of becoming nothing, and it sharpened as she floated a little closer toward the vivid tear. The fear of loss held a grip on her as well. Friends and family drifted through her thoughts as she savored each face. So many memories of the ones she used to love. So many to be forgotten. The thought of losing them all terrified her. Her focus kept drifting toward her husband, and a small pang of loneliness would shoot through her core with each memory of him that flickered past. 

He had been everything to her. 

It was that which saved Morgan in the end, as she may have wavered until her strange form slowly disintegrated into the space around her. Instead heartbreaking loss, stronger than the fear of the unknown and the anger that made her, shattered what last shreds of hesitation that remained. Her husband was dead. Cut down by a man who was motivated by nothing more than greed. Morgan knew that this man had killed her as well, but whatever afterlife she had been sent to was not the same as where her husband was now. Despite the unfamiliarity of this place, Morgan knew without a doubt that she would have felt his presence here. An eternity without him would be unbearable, but she might survive if she never knew him at all.

The choice was clear, Morgan faltered only once before drifting toward the light once more. The fear of loss grew sharper as her thoughts grew duller and the light slowly stripped away the woman that once was. The anger that was her incorporeal form seemed to pulse in anticipation as she grew closer and Morgan clung to the pounding feeling in desperation. 

Once Morgan entered the tear, the pain began again. It was immeasurable like before, but Morgan pushed through all the same. Going forward she could only see the vivid green that throbbed in rhythm with the agony that hit her form. The light stripped away layers of her as she continued. It stole memories of friends and enemies, good times and bad, until it was only the core of her being that remained. Morgan dimly realized that the light was growing dimmer and, with a last final push, broke through the barrier. With this entrance, the last remnants of Morgan broke into a thousand pieces and scattered. It was only the shell of her body that entered this new world, the violent anger that she had taken with her from the old. What used to be Morgan crossed the threshold into this unknown place as Wrath, and it howled its fury to the world.


	2. The Scholars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got excited about updating and I couldn't stop myself.

Wrath came into existence in a small meadow on Mythal’s lands, a lush jungle of towering trees and sprawling hills. If it had been able to take note of its surroundings during its birth, it would have been hard-pressed to find two elves hidden near a giant of a tree nearby. Both were cleverly hidden in a shallow ditch created by the ancient and gnarled roots. The woman was young, barely at the cusp of adulthood, and watched the spirit with utter and complete fascination. The older of the two appeared cautious and observed the newborn spirit the same way he might look at a ferocious animal. He was not wrong in a sense. 

Wrath soon finished its cry of rage and chose a direction, seemingly at random, before aimlessly drifting off. Luckily for the two concealed, it was opposite of where they lay hidden. When the spirit had vanished from view, the man slowly got to his knees, pondering what he had just seen. The young elf bounced to her feet beside him, with eyes that shone with wonder. The older elf cleared his throat in disapproval at her exuberance, and the young elf had the presence to look briefly ashamed for a moment before running off to examine the spot where Wrath had left moments prior.

“Eolasen, come here! You need to see this!” The woman waved one hand with a careless ease, and the clearing lit up with twinkling light. The young elf gasped in delight at this development and reached into a knapsack hanging at her side. She drew out a thin, leather-bound notebook and a small piece of charcoal, scribbling small notes as she chattered.

“I knew that this one would be different,” her voice was breathless as she strode from one point to the next, writing all the while. Her path was impeded by the tall grass in the clearing, and the young elf impatiently stomped the lush undergrowth down as she walked. “When was the last time a spirit was born this close to the temple? Did I not tell you it would be different on the way here?”

The elf known as Eolasen slowly walked to stand by the animated elf, observing the sparkling light with a practiced eye. He had plucked off a small flower that stood at waist height as he walked past, picking off the petals aimlessly as he lay deep in thought. “Indeed you did.” His voice was grave. The younger woman stopped moving at the sound of the man’s tone and frowned. 

“What?”

Eolasen paused a moment before answering, throwing the now bare stem to the side. “You’ll have to be more specific.” 

The woman huffed in exasperation. “You know what I mean.” 

Eolasen hummed a quiet note before looking around once again. “This spirit is dangerous Fisara.”

A humorless snort escaped the young elf. “All sprits have the potential to be dangerous, you taught me that.” Her tone bordered on insolence, but the man ignored it and scrutinized the clearing. Fisara stood there quietly, although fidgeting with her notebook, as she waited for Eolasen’s assessment. After a long minute passed Eolasen spun toward Fisara, with no warning, hands clasped together tightly in front of his chest.

“What manner of spirit is this?” 

If Fisara was put off by the sudden line in questioning, she made no indication of such. Instead, she held up a single, charcoal stained finger for a moment to observe. She strode around the clearing, following the same path she had trampled down earlier, occasionally making a quick wave of her hand here or there, and flipping back to previous notes in her worn notebook.

“Based on the ambient magic,” she made another haphazard gesture and the twinkling lights in the meadow shone a little brighter, “and the spirit’s behavior…” Fisara incoherently mumbled to herself as she continued to read her previous notes. Looking up, she then surveyed the area with a furrowed brow.

“Of course, there wasn’t much time to observe but I think I’d put it at a subvariant of Rage? It will take a little guesswork but I think I can chart out a likely path in the next week. With any luck, it will wander toward one of the more central eluvians. I’ll also need to check the records about the pilgrims we’ve had recently before going any further than that, maybe something in the last decade or two? It feels fresh.” Another moment of hesitation.

“There was that minor noble of Andruil, what was his name again? Aen- something or other like that. He got involved with one of Mythal’s slaves. Something about a child from the” Fisara’s expression briefly turned distasteful,” …union. I remember the mother of the poor thing was especially upset, tried to stab the man with a paring knife she had up her sleeve. I think they had to drag her out when they changed the child’s vallaslin.” Fisara tapped her chin thoughtfully. 

“You know, maybe not. I think that would fall more under Despair. It’s impossible to theorize right now. I’d want to talk to the priests first. Get a first-hand account of some of the more recent outbursts. I don’t think they’ll see me so last minute though. Maybe if you talk to them?” Fisara ended on a hopeful note. “I don’t think they can say no to you, especially if you stressed how unique the situation is.”

Eolasen stared down the young elf, his expression seemingly unreadable, before answering, “No.” With that, he left the clearing, leaving a stunned Fisara behind. 

“Wait, what?” Fisara awkwardly shoved her things back in her bag, while trying to keep up with the older man’s longer legs. “Why would you not?” Still no answer, and Fisara had to break into a jog to keep up with Eolasen’s purposeful stride. “Eolasen, you’re not making any sense. Can you please just wait a second and talk?” 

Eolasen refused to answer Fisara’s line of questioning, and the two made their way through the forest, weaving between towering ferns and the trees looming high overhead. The path back was uphill, and Fisara was soon out of breath. 

“Just stop! I don’t understand why you’re acting like this!” Fisara’s voice grew even more shrill but Eolasen still didn’t answer. Practically growling with frustration, the young elf reached up and grabbed Eolasen’s shoulder, yanking him around to turn and face her. Eolasen did not utter a word and only lifted one slim eyebrow at her behavior. Fisara’s chest heaved as she struggled to find her breath from chasing after her mentor. For a moment, neither said anything, the silence only broken by the birds shrieking across the jungle. After several long seconds, Fisara spoke first.

“You’re not making any sense, you never leave undocumented spirits.”

“And I will not be changing my behavior now,” Eolasen’s voice was low and calm, “this investigation will be conducted without your assistance.” Eolasen held up a hand before Fisara could begin another rant, “You are too young and inexperienced to deal with such a creature.” A vein began throbbing at the edge of Fisara’s temple.

“It is a Rage spirit, and it was born not even an hour ago.” The words were uttered through clenched teeth. “You trained me on spirits like this, why in Mythal’s name are you holding back on me now?”

A sigh escaped Eolasen’s lips at Fisara’s slight blasphemy, before a faint smile appeared. “This is no spirit of ire or vexation, Fisara, brought to life by a frustrated pilgrim. The influence it wields is immense, and its conception could only have been forged by a powerful anger. Think about your behavior, when was the last time you acted like this way to me, or to anyone for that matter?”

Fisara frowned, her face still flushed from exertion. “What are you talking about?” As soon as she spoke the words she gasped, and a slender hand flew up to her mouth in surprise. The tips of her ears grew bright red in realization. “Eolasen,” her voice wobbled as though on the edge of tears, “please forgive me.”

Eolasen gave a fatherly smile to his student, and clasped one hand on her shoulder. “You did nothing wrong, the fault is entirely mine. I should have looked into the matter more closely, instead of bringing you on an ill-thought out expedition.” Tears were beginning to leak out of Fisara’s wide eyes and Eolasen tutted gently. “None of that now,” and he pulled Fisara into a hug, her small body wracking silently with sobs. 

“I-I just feel so stupid.” Fisara hiccupped into the soft fabric of Eolasen’s tunic. She was covering it in an impressive amount of mucus but Eolasen continued to pat her gently. Eventually she pulled away, still sniffling and rubbing her eyes with the corners of her sleeves. Eolasen gave her a moment to compose herself before reassuring his student.

“You are, without a doubt, one of the most talented students I’ve had in several ages.” Fisara gave a small smile at this, breath hitching slightly. “I’ve seen men and women with a thousand more years of experience break more quickly at the hands of a particularly influential spirit. Worse still, not being able to admit to such after the fact.” Patting his pockets, Eolasen offered a handkerchief to Fisara, who dabbed her eyes with the plain piece of cloth. 

“You have an enormous amount of promise Fisara, but I won’t have you undergo such an ordeal in order to assist me with this spirit. I’ll handle this from here on out and you can assist Lahlas and Sahren with documenting the spirit of Ingenuity they’ve been having trouble with. They need a gentler touch.” Fisara gave a small laugh at this and nodded at Eolasen’s assessment. Patting her shoulder one last time, and taking his now wet handkerchief back, the two began making their way back toward the temple. They were silent, focusing on the path ahead. Fisara was lost in thought about what had occurred and decided to spend a quiet night reading about persuasive spirits and different techniques of resistance. 

Eolasen was also contemplating what occurred, although his vein of thought was much different. He had lied to Fisara. Not about her being the brightest pupil he’s had recently, the girl had a sharp mind and a passion that rivaled many of his fellow scholars. That was in fact, why he had brought her in the first place. He had, however, had a vague idea of what they were going to see when they ventured out earlier that day. Several millennia of spirit documentation in the area had left him finely attuned to the magical aura of the temple and the surrounding lands, though he was not so prideful to assume that he could not be mistaken. Allowing Fisara to accompany him had been a somewhat rudimentary experiment. One that, unfortunately, proved his hypothesis correct. Fisara was well-trained and should have been able to resist the newborn spirit’s influence. Unless of course, there were mitigating factors. Factors that warranted a consultation with the priests at the temple.

He resisted letting loose a heavy sigh. No need to dread the work ahead. He would not cause himself needless frustration when there would be plenty to spare soon enough. Though he could not stop the pit of worry from growing in his heart. The lands outside of Mythal’s temple were vast and generally empty, though there were small populated pockets. They were mostly work camps, harvesting stone or lumber, and they wouldn’t be well-guarded. A newly formed spirit, one with just enough brute force to do damage, could manage to hurt people. Eolasen doubted that he could convince the nobles who owned them of the possible danger ahead considering, as of yet, nothing had actually happened. Even if he could manage to persuade them, it would be cheaper to replace the slaves rather than pay for guards. No, there was nothing he could do at the moment to prevent any possible mishaps. He would simply have to hope that nothing would happen in the meantime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love in Inquisition how Solas talks about what it was like before the Veil, and how spirits were a normal part of nature. I imagined groups of researchers dedicated to discovering new spirits and documenting everything for future reference. Also, I know it never explicitly says how spirits are born in lore, besides the brief mention that spirits that have died can maybe be reborn later, but I liked to think that spirits can be born from the emotions or events from what happens around the area.


	3. A Whole New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you in part by white russians and copious amounts of wine.

Wrath patiently drifted in the dense wood that encompassed Mythal’s lands. It did not hesitate in its journey, yet it did not appear to have a clear destination either, seemingly content to listlessly wander. Occasionally it would deviate from its course, usually to avoid a fallen tree or a boulder jutting out of the soft earth. However, at each new obstruction, it would simply choose a different direction and continue forward from there. 

It also had not uttered a sound since its entry to this new world, beyond the first, painful screech to announce its arrival. The only noise it made being small whisperings of leaves and flecks of dirt that puffed up around its intangible form. Neither had it stopped to observe its surroundings, or study the strange and marvelous creatures that hurried out of Wrath’s way. Giant rodents that leaped to and fro in the decaying undergrowth of the wild jungle and birds of every color imaginable flitted amongst the sky-high branches. Occasionally, small wisps would marginalize seemingly out of thin air, only to scatter at the approach of Wrath, disappearing as quickly as they appeared. Wrath paid attention to none of them, as its attention was focused elsewhere. 

Cognizant thought slowly materialized in the mind’s eye, the ability to think and reason pushed forward amongst the former chaos of its thoughts. A brutal birth and a clouded haze, moving toward an unknown goal at first, yet clarity ensued as it journeyed forward. A brief wonder at existence, before the deep-seated longing to find kin. The increasing need to find others of its kind.

Not the other ilk that ran about. Similar in flesh, but not in soul. Tiny creatures that knew only the barest of thoughts, Wrath would not deign to recognize them. Neither would it seek out the more similar creatures of its being. Wrath caught their scent and was at first intrigued, but pushed past once it realized what they sought, images of what occurred flashing by. Simple creatures of rage, content feasting on violent desires before a stable hand would notice. These solid ones of formless emotion would come and reshape them, twisting a new purpose beyond anger. Stripped of themselves, they were nothing more than tools of these beings who dared to presume that they were worthy enough to do so. These arrogant creatures of flesh. No, Wrath needed kin certain in its actions and desires to be a companion to Wrath, and to not lose themselves in aimless violence.

It searched, oh how it searched. A smart hunter keeps a clear head and a steady pace, but how it longed to run rampant in these crowded woods, past these muted souls to find such a companion. A desperate hunt to find one that would understand its need for power that only came from pure, unshakeable fury and a need to dominate those who would dare to resist. Wrath felt this longing entangled at the core of its being, shaken by its intense desire. Suddenly, a voice broke through the clatter of the surrounding jungle, one that traveled not by sound but by resolve, and Wrath caught a second’s glimpse. The image seared into its mind. 

_A clenched fist follows the familiar path of broken bone and blood. A boy stands tall, against a crowd of jeering giants. Pelted with flesh and painted crimson, a discarded soul in a world that thrives on the cutting edge of cruelty. The silent ghost of an unshed tear glides across an ocean of future hurts, but is held back. A prison in which to grow dank and fester. The child had been broken, but was molded anew. Wrath had shaped him._

_This was no simple anger of a child, passionate and swift. Fury like a summer storm, shaking the heavens for its will to be known before disappearing as quickly as it arrived. Only remembered by the faint scent in the air. This ire was drawn by a short lifetime of pain and misery. A deadly concoction of grief and despair, of violent treatment and malice. The boy may not be of the same flesh, but they were kindred spirits. This child was no stranger to Wrath._

This apparition that affected Wrath was only the tiniest crumb of a thought, a bare morsel of intent and emotion, but it clung to it like a starving man. Its taste breathed new life into the listless spirit, and its form changed from ethereal to opaque. Despite this, the vision quickly grew stale on Wrath’s tongue and it craved more. The first scrap of passion and rage and Wrath now knew true hunger, gnawing and pleading to be satiated. Wrath needed this child.

Like a hound trying to root out the frightened hare, Wrath stopped its lolling gait and began darting back and forth, trying to find the trail. The flickering memories it had clung to had faded, but it might be able to find the path they took to find Wrath. As Wrath scurried amongst the fallen leaves, it did not notice that the soft earth that it had once traveled slowly became harder and more compact. At first glance, it might have been little more than a game trail, which larger unknown creatures of the jungle used to traverse the landscape. As Wrath continued to frantically search, the path widened and became clear of fallen debris. Wrath, too intent on finding a clear direction to take, did not take notice and continued oblivious to its surroundings.

Going forward, the well-worn trail shifted somewhat, and a small stream appeared. Silver fish with long, flowing fins floated in the impossibly clear water and rocks worn perfectly smooth by the current pebbled the bottom of the creek. The brook did not run perfectly parallel with the path, and had a few small twists and turns, causing the crashing water to gurgle as it traveled along. The sound of the stream, in conjunction with Wrath’s obliviousness, caused the spirit to startle as two men appeared on the trail.

The elves were plainly dressed, wearing sturdy clothes made of coarse, undyed wool. Their feet were covered in thin, leather wrappings and one of the men had a small knife tucked into the waistband at his hip. Everything about the men was practical, save for the only ornamentation that adorned the elves which were thin, dark tattoos covering their foreheads and cheeks. Both the elves were carrying crudely made wooden baskets, each of them filled with neatly stacked logs and bundles of twigs. 

The most impressive thing about the men, was the majestic, deer-like creature that was behind them. It was a startling white, and had curving antlers that gracefully arched away from its head. It was a powerful creature and there was little doubt that it could pull the heavy cart it was attached to with ease. Its lithe body suggested a deep-seated endurance, and its long legs gave the impression that the animal could run and leap for miles without tiring. 

Yet, the creature’s head was drawn and sagging, and its breath was labored. The majestic white pelt was stained with mud and sweat, and foam dripped from the corners of its panting mouth. It slowly walked along the path, each shaking step appeared like it may be its last, but the exhausted animal kept its steady pace. At a closer glance, it was easy to see why the beast was fatigued. The cart was overburdened with an excess of tools, food items, and other miscellaneous objects. The wheels groaned with effort and slowly creaked over the uneven road. The creature shuddered with each reluctant turn of the wheels, but kept its pace alongside its masters. 

Wrath was entranced with this creature, this brilliant hart that was subservient to lesser beings. These two men, ugly and graceless, with none of the power or majesty that the beast held. Wrath could not fathom why the two men were not pulling the cart, and why the snowy beast did not lead the way. With indignation in its heart, Wrath turned toward the two men, who had stopped and were pointing at Wrath. There was no fear in their face, no terror in their countenance, only a mild curiosity. Wrath could not understand the language they spoke, and watched them jab and point in its direction. Although the words that they spoke were meaningless, Wrath could read the muffled thoughts coming from their minds. A mild inquisitiveness, and general sloth permeated the elves feelings. With a shrug toward the other elf, the man with the knife at his waist held up a hand toward Wrath.

Wrath felt a sudden push, and staggered backwards, before it felt an invisible grasp around its body. The grip squeezed, and Wrath felt suffocated, like a weight had been tossed on its chest. With that done, another unseen force began picking at Wrath’s form, like a loose thread on a piece of clothing. With a start, Wrath felt a part of its body unravel and the light that emanated from its body dimmed slightly. The strength it had regained earlier from the wisp of a memory had been stolen. Something was trying to pull apart the bindings that made up Wrath. Another errant thought brushed against Wrath’s mind, this time from one of the two men and Wrath caught a glimpse of their intent. It saw itself, purpose now shattered and unable to think, carrying both baskets for the men. It struggled with the weight, and Wrath saw its future self labor beside the fatigued deer. The two men strolled ahead, laughing as their burdens were eased.

Another pinch and a piece of Wrath unraveled once more. Roaring in rage at the sight of this future, Wrath reached for the strength to break free of this grip. It quickly realized that it did not have the power to do so, and Wrath reached for anything to aid its struggle. With a start, Wrath realized what it needed was everywhere. Power in its most raw form, waiting to be forged into a tool that Wrath would use to smite those who dared oppose it. Taking it was as easy as reaching out with its mind, and letting it in. 

The rush was as torrential as a waterfall after a flood, and it blasted into Wrath’s body and soul. Wrath’s body immediately burst with light, and its form became sharper than ever before. With a simple pop, the hold on it released and Wrath pushed out of the shackles that remained. The man with the knife yelped in surprise, and shook his outstretched hand if he had been burned. He might have been, as the air around Wrath’s body shimmered and waved with heat. 

Wrath turned toward the men. Unable to speak their language, it pushed the intent of its heart into the elves minds.

_A firestorm of furor, steadfast in its intent. Unshakable, unstoppable. Pity the simple-minded that would attempt to chain it from its purpose, for they would learn. They would all learn. Tremble at its fury, plead for your lives that have already been claimed. A shattered breath away from an end. Shudder at the fate of fools who attempt to bind Wrath._

The elves cried out in fear and fled, leaving their cart and animal behind. They scrambled after each other, before running as far as they could from the spirit. Wrath did not chase after them, nor did it want to. After the influx of new power, the discovery of what lay for the taking, it was much more entranced with the steady hum of strength that now lay dormant. 

A nervous whine broke Wrath’s thought, and it discovered that the battered creature that had been abandoned by the elves was still attached to the cart. It was too spent to attempt to run after the men while still pulling the heavy load. Instead, it backed up as far as its harness would allow it, its ears were pushed back flat against its head. Wrath judged the creature dispassionately, no longer feeling the same righteous anger now that the men had disappeared. It had freed itself from grasp of those beings, why would this creature not do the same? Instead, it merely cowered with freedom in sight. 

Yet, this creature had inadvertently been the key to Wrath’s new might, and it would see the hart properly rewarded. Manipulating the energy that surrounded it, Wrath allowed razor sharp talons to appear from newly formed hands. With a slash, the harness that caged the deer broke into pieces and the mindless beast leapt across the nearby stream and tore off through the woods, adrenaline fueling its escape. With that goal accomplished, Wrath released the energy and allowed the claws to retreat to nothingness. 

It stared at the carnage it had wrecked. The cart had tipped to its side at the powerful blow from Wrath, the contents spilling out across the primitive road, and the ground was scuffed where the men had fled for their lives. Wrath was pleased. A humble start, but Wrath did not allow itself to be swayed by the influence of hubris. The greatest creature has the smallest of beginnings, the smallest stream leads back to the ocean. 

With that, Wrath went to its previous task of searching for the scent of the boy. Drawing on the power around it, the aroma sharpened and the path from whence it came lit up like a torch in the night. Wrath did not know how long it might take, or what dangers lie on the road ahead. It mattered little. Nothing would stand in its way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention this in the last chapter but credit goes to Project Elvhen for names.


	4. Friendly Competition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Holidays, I got married, life, etc.

Lahlas studied the small particles of dust that danced lazily in the twisting rays of morning light. Stifling a yawn, she wondered how many motes were currently floating above her head. She briefly attempted to count them but stopped soon after she realized she had no way of marking the ones she tallied. Lahlas wondered what would happen if she gathered all the dust in the room and piled it into one space. Would it even fill a jar? She tabled the thought after another yawn threatened to crack her jaw in two, and she sipped the black tea that currently sat in front of her. The steam from the hot drink curling in on itself as it traveled upward, disappearing into the airy room. 

This was Lahlas’s favorite area to sit and think. The student’s lab was nearly always empty before noon. The space was vast, with high windows that let in the brilliant sun that illuminated all corners of the room. The walls were unadorned, and the floors were made from the smooth, dull green stone shipped in from the nearby quarries. Lahlas was currently perched on a wooden stool, pieces of parchment with scrawled notes in nearly illegible handwriting in front of her. She had thought to study her notes, but she could not pass up the opportunity for the moment of serenity allotted to her. 

As soon as she conjured the thought, it was broken as Sahren and Fisara burst into the lab. When the duo spotted Lahlas they strode toward her, their pitched voices rising in volume as they drew nearer. Sahren was scowling and Fisara had an unusually smug smile. Lahlas sighed quietly and drained her mug.

“Good morning Lahlas,” Fisara beamed at her colleague as she sat at the sturdy table that Lahlas was currently occupying. “Sahren and I were just discussing your project. Eolasen instructed me that I was to help you both with your current setbacks.” 

That would explain Sahren’s grimace. Fisara was normally tolerable, at the very least she was generally cheery. She was also one of more brilliant elves Lahlas had ever met. Unfortunately, Fisara was very aware of her own talents. Lahlas was careful to tamper that emotion down. She was terrible at hiding her feelings.

“That would be appreciated,” Lahlas smiled gently. “However, Sahren and I think we’re fairly close to answers this time. The spirit has been answering some basic questions already.”

“Exactly.” Sahren was making no attempt to hide his frustration, waves of irritation hitting Lahlas like she had just been doused in cold water. Fisara’s smile didn’t falter.

“Of course you are, but Eolasen specifically asked me to assist you. He mentioned it has been a while since he has heard any meaningful updates.” Reaching over to Lahlas’s haphazard stack of papers, Fisara reached over and grabbed the top few. “Your notes?” Fisara did not wait for Lahlas’s nod before examining them. 

“Gods Lahlas, how do you make sense of your own work?” A slight titter escaped Fisara as she flipped to the next page in her hand. Lahlas was unable to hold back the slight tinge of shame that ran through her countenance. If Fisara noticed, she didn’t comment, but she did put the notes back onto the pile.

“No matter,” Fisara reached over and clasped Lahlas’s clammy hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I’m sure I’ll need to write my own notes on the subject anyway.” Lahlas pulled her hand back.

“I thought you were supposed to be working on tracking the new spirit Fisara? Did Eolasen not require your assistance?” 

It was a low blow and Lahlas felt bad as soon as she uttered the words. The women that cleaned the student’s rooms had been gossiping a few weeks ago about Fisara. According to one of the slaves Lahlas had befriended, a talkative girl who went by Nehna, Fisara had come back from a short expedition with Eolasen a few days prior, something about tracking a spirit birth. On the way back, Fisara had taken the secluded route to her room and had locked herself in for the remainder of the evening. Nehna was the one who had met them on the way back to their lodgings. 

“She looked miserable,” Nehna had long stopped cleaning and was instead acting out the encounter with enthusiastic theatrics, her short mop of red hair bouncing in front of her eyes as she darted around. Her fellow workers were too entertained to insist she stop and help them. “Master Eolasen’s shirt was drenched in tears and snot. Went up to them and asked him if he needed a bath drawn after falling in a stream, couldn’t help it!” Her response sent peals of laughter through Lahlas’s room.

The memory rang in Lahlas’s head as Fisara stared at her. The same smile was still plastered on Fisara’s face. “Eolasen believed that my talents were better suited here Lahlas. The new spirit is most likely one of Rage, hardly worth my time tracking one simple spirit.” Fisara spoke as if she were explaining something common to a particularly dull child. 

“Why is Eolasen doing it alone then?” Sahren shot back. For a brief second it appeared like Fisara’s carefully constructed haze of optimism flickered. Lahlas felt like kicking him under the table. 

“I don’t presume to question our teacher’s explicit instructions Sahren. Something you might do well to consider.” 

“I’m not questioning Eolasen’s competence, just yours.” 

Fisara’s stood gracefully, as if greeting an old friend rather than addressing an insult. Sahren stood as well, though he looked as if he might hit Fisara as soon as say something to her. “I’m only trying to help Sahren.” The words were kind but Fisara’s tone had lost the pleasantness she had before. 

“Lahlas and I don’t need your help!”

“Then why am I here Sahren?”

“Because you’re an impossible brat with a superiority complex?”

Fisara sighed and turned to Lahlas. “I’m going to wait for Sahren to calm down before we attempt to work together.” Sahren sputtered at Fisara talking to Lahlas as if he weren’t present but Fisara continued. “We’ll meet again tomorrow to discuss this further, Sahren may join us if he is feeling able.” With that, Fisara left the room quietly while Sahren huffed in indignation. 

“Can you believe her? What a complete and utter bitch!” Sahren turned to Lahlas for support only to see her glaring at him. “What are you mad at me for?”

“That wasn’t necessary.”

“You started it!” Sahren jabbed his finger at her aggressively as if that would prove his point. “You’re the one bringing up the idea that Eolasen thinks she can’t handle something. If anything, that made her madder than anything I said.” Lahlas couldn’t argue with that so she gathered up her notes and empty mug and began to leave.

“Oh, so you’re going to run off and sulk too?” Sahren taunted Lahlas’s leaving form. The only response he received in turn was Lahlas rolling her eyes before exiting the lab.

Normally, Lahlas would have returned to her room after studying for the day, content to sit and daydream. Unfortunately, her mind was rolling and turning like a storm-battered ship. At her core, Lahlas was not a vindictive person and she had no heart for cruelty. As such, she couldn’t but help feel regretful over what occurred with Fisara. Fisara could be insufferably smug at times, but that didn’t warrant questioning her like that, especially in front of Sahren. 

There was another part of her regret that was more selfish. Why had Eolasen taken Fisara off the new spirit? Fisara was arrogant, but she had reason to be. A newly born spirit of Rage would be no match for Fisara to track and document for the temple archives, even destroy if there was need to. If Lahlas and Sahren weren’t still working with the spirit of Ingenuity, she would have expected that one of them would have been shouldered with the work. Instead, it appeared like Eolasen was handling it personally? It made no sense. Sadly, Fisara would be prickly about the issue now. There would be no getting answers from her.

Lahlas pondered the issue as she brought her dirty cup to the kitchens, weaving in between the kitchen staff, and snagging a fresh roll cooling on the racks as she did so. 

“Little thief!” Lahlas jumped as a wooden spoon smacked her on her back. Nearly dropping her papers, Lahlas turned to see Nehna mockingly wielding the offending utensil in Lahlas’s direction. 

“As sentinel of this sacred ground, protector of the yeast, worshipper of grain, I demand satisfaction trespasser!” With a lunge, Nehna whapped Lahlas on the bottom once more, even as Lahlas attempted to dart away. Lahlas couldn’t help but giggle, although her melancholy still hung about her like a cloud. Nehna stopped her assault as she gave Lahlas a shrewd look, before whipping off her flour dusted apron and pulling Lahlas off to a nearby storage closet.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Lahlas teasingly elbowed Nehna in the ribs as she sat down on a sack of grain. Nehna plopped down on the opposing bag.

“Not when you look like you’re about to burst into tears at any given moment.” Lahlas could only raise her eyebrows but Nehna brushed off her concerns. “Haleir owes me a favor anyway. What’s going on?”

At her friend’s prodding, Lahlas broke down and told Nehna about the day’s events. She couldn’t help a few tears rolling down her cheeks at the mention of what she said to Fisara, guilt overcoming her like a storm. Nehna eyed Lahlas thoughtfully, before gently brushing the tears off Lahlas’s cheeks. 

“You’re too gentle for this place.” A moment’s silence passed, Nehna’s hand lightly rested on Lahlas’s cheek. Lahlas leaned into the whispering touch ghosting across her face. As she did so, Lahlas found herself lost staring into Nehna’s eyes, warm pools of brown surrounded by sable vallaslin. The intricate vines accentuated her eyes, pulling Lahlas in closer towards Nehna’s honeyed gaze. The moment quickly passed when Nehna allowed her hand to drop. A wicked smile appeared on the fiery elf’s lips. 

“Want to figure out what all this fuss is about?”

Lahlas cleared her throat, initially not trusting her voice. “What, with the spirit? 

“Of course with this damn spirit. This whole kitchen has been nothing but gossip this past week about the blasted thing.” Nehna nudged Lahlas shoulder. “I happen to have, on very good information, that Master Eolasen is meeting with the priests tomorrow.”

“So what?”

“So what?” Nehna snorted as she repeated Lahlas’s words. “Everyone knows that Master Eolasen hates the temple. He’s requesting that the priests meet with him urgently and without an audience. He’s even managed to get himself in without the rites.” Nehna’s smirk grew wider. “You think all of this is a coincidence?”

Lahlas’s curiosity was on fire, but she tamped it down. “What good does knowing that get us? I can’t get us into the temple.” 

“Of course you can’t, but I can.” Nehna snatched the now cold bread out of Lahlas’s hand and took a bite. “How do you feel about tight spaces?”

*****

As it turned out, Lahlas did not care for tight spaces, much to Nehna’s initial amusement. Lahlas could only wonder what she had been thinking when Nehna had told her how they would access the temple last night. 

“Look, it’s ridiculously simple.” Lahlas and Nehna had discussed their plan in the kitchen, long after the rest of the slaves had cleaned and went to bed. Nehna had a stained piece of parchment with a crude map drawn in charcoal laid out. “This is the temple lodgings.” Nehna pointed toward the square in front of the temple. “And this is the bridge to get to the temple.” Nehna referenced the line connecting the two. “The path from the lodgings to the actual temple would be covered in sentinels, all wondering why in Mythal’s name a slave and an initiate are heading that way. We wouldn’t get across the bridge.”

“Okay…” Lahlas tried to make sense of the map. Whoever drew this had worse penmanship than she did. “How do we get in then?”

Nehna flipped the piece of paper over. While the opposite side was drawn in thick, blocky strokes, this part was covered in crisscrossing thin lines. “We use the sewers.”

Lahlas stared blankly at her friend. “Look, I’m as curious as you are but I really don’t think it’s worth crawling through the temple’s waste to find out what’s going on.” Nehna laughed at Lahlas’s reservations.

“We’re not using those sewers. We’re using the drainage pipes,” Nehna pointed to one of the thin lines. “It hasn’t rained in ages, these things are going to be bone dry. They’re a little cramped but, according to this, these should lead to a grate right underneath the petitioner’s chamber.” Nehna smacked her open palm against the table. “Master Eolasen is demanding a lot from the priests on such short notice. I’d bet dinner on the fact that the priests are going to lord over him about it in that room.”

Lahlas stared at the map, unable to make sense of the hastily scribbled lines. “I don’t know Nehna. This plan is based on a lot of maybes.”

“Well, what did you expect? I don’t see you with any better ideas.”

Lahlas turned the map sideways, as if it would offer a different perspective from a new angle. “It just seems like a lot of risk. Where did you even get this anyway?”

Nehna let out a humorless laugh. “What, you think the people who keep this place going don’t know every little in and out?” Nehna stared thoughtfully before she took on an unusually serious expression. “Lahlas, I’m taking a big risk showing you this. I’m trusting you with information that could potentially get every ink-marked elf in this place killed or worse. I like you. I like you a lot, but I need you to understand that this piece of paper is worth more than that. I need you to trust me if you want to do this.”

Lahlas gazed steadily back at her friend, before slowly nodding. “I trust you.” Nehna’s face resumed her usual smirk before slowly folding up the old map and reverently placing the parchment in her pocket. “Good. Go to bed and I’ll wake you up in a couple hours. This time tomorrow, we’ll know what’s going on.”

Lahlas was startled from her musings as she let loose a yawn. Nehna stopped her crawling to turn toward Lahlas and silently motioning her to keep silent. Lahlas wasn’t used to this lack of sleep, especially without a cup of tea to energize her for the coming day. Nehna appeared just as fresh and ready as she did on any other occasion. Lahlas could only envy her.

Lahlas wasn’t sure how long they had been skulking underneath the temple. She had long since lost track of the countless twists and turns Nehna had led them through. The grit and dust from the tunnel kicked up in Lahlas’s eyes and her throat burned from lack of water. Nehna’s constant pace was the only thing that kept her moving. 

After what felt like an eternity of misery, Nehna finally stopped. Lahlas, having long since stopped paying attention, crashed her head into Nehna’s rear. Looking forward, she saw Nehna giving her a brief scowl before gesturing above them. Instead of the low hanging stone that the duo had been ducking to avoid throughout their trip, there was empty space. A narrow recess in the stone led upwards for several feet before ending in an iron grate. Looking past the metal’s intricate design, Lahlas could make out brief flashes of shining gold and precious gems glittering past the frame. They were in the temple. 

Nehna and Lahlas wedged themselves against the closed walls of the tunnel on opposite sides of the grate, close enough to listen in on the comings and goings up above. Lahlas caught Nehna’s eye as they situated themselves. 

“How long?” Lahlas was careful enough to mouth the words and to not voice them. She was met with a cheerful shrug from Nehna. Lahlas tried to rearrange herself into a more comfortable position before Nehna began viciously shaking her head at her, worried at the soft rustling Lahlas was making. Lahlas stopped moving and sank into the stone. She had a nagging feeling that this wasn’t going to be worth the effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've never been able to find any evidence for drainage in the Temple of Mythal but come on. They have at least a dozen water features in that place.


	5. Politics without Principle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally supposed to be two chapters, but I felt it flowed better as one. Hope ya'll enjoy!

Eolasen was tired. Not due to the early morning, though the birds that flitted outside his window had only begun to trill their rising songs. He had long since gotten a restful night’s sleep. Dreams from his past wafting to disrupt his slumber, their stench infecting his thoughts until he awoke with dread in his heart and sweat on his brow. No, he had not slept well in a long time. He was used to the exhaustion.

The prospect of the current day is what set off his melancholy state. Talking to the high priests, surrounded by gluttony and greed in their golden halls. They would be in no fine state either, Eolasen was fully aware of the disrespect he was showing by arranging this hasty meeting. If Eolasen were any other, he would have been laughed out of his position and thrown out with his things. But he was not just any other, as much as it prickled the priests in their grand temple, and Eolasen allowed himself a wry smile at that. 

Eolasen gathered his thoughts as he began to greet the day, dressing himself in enough finery as to not offend his soon to be audience. He donned robes of luxurious silk threaded with intricate embroidery. Silver greaves and matching guards soon followed, though any protection they would offer would be scarce. Their swirling designs, honoring Mythal and her deeds, were ornamental at best. Eolasen considered them to be particularly gauche, but such style was to be expected today. Eolasen would do what was required. As he had always done.

Properly attired for his meeting, Eolasen strode out towards the temple. Sunlight glinted off the rooftop, and the smell of dew tinged the morning air. Such a morning would be best spent in quiet introspection, perhaps even having his students join him for an impromptu early class. Instead, Eolasen strode deeper into the den of perdition.

Eolasen was greeted by a sentinel as he approached. The woman’s vallaslin glittered like emerald dust on her face. Eolasen suppressed a grimace. All those inducted into Mythal’s service, whether involuntary or not, had Her vallaslin adorned on their visage. They were supposed to be interchangeable. No difference between the lowliest slave and the highest priest. Eolasen had been alive long enough to remember when that meant something. Now the rules had been twisted. Still marked the same, yet the slaves were decorated in black. Sentinels and priests were adorned with markings of green and gold. No one would mistake one for the other. When the alteration first occurred, Eolasen wondered if Mythal knew. He later asked himself if she was the one responsible for the change. 

Eolasen was led into the temple entrance, past the regal statues of Mythal. Magic imbued the living stone, and her form wavered as he passed. One moment, a benevolent ruler handing down fair judgement. The next, a creature breathing flame in retribution. Eolasen walked past these warped sculptures. He felt their gaze as he bypassed the normal rites. An irrational thud of fear gripped his heart as he walked past a particularly ferocious one. As if he expected the searing heat upon his own self. 

Eolasen and his guide soon entered the temple proper, where supplicants for Mythal’s ruling walked the rites and cried out for justice. The chanting lamentations filled the grand hall, and Eolasen felt a sense of unease creep along his spine. The walls shone to perfection, and distorted reflections of pilgrims occasionally caught his eye. Their bodies misshapen and perverted by the golden hue. Eolasen averted his gaze. How he loathed this place. 

Eolasen and his stoic companion eventually made it to the entry of the petitioner’s hall, where the sentinel then broke off and stood guard by the entrance. As if by unspoken cue, the magnificent door opened and led to the room of judgement. Eolasen entered, where he was met with the image of the three high priests of the temple. They stood high above him on the level ahead, a low railing separating them from Eolasen. They stood impassively and gave him no greeting. Not that he had expected a warm welcome.

Eolasen walked across the tiled floors, each step he made clattering far too loudly for the somberness of the room. He remembered when he was last here, in the presence of gods no less. All over a squabble regarding a child. The whole thing had ended in a disaster, the mother of the babe being drug out after leaping hidden from the shadows. Her anguished howls reverberating through these hallowed halls. Fisara had accompanied him on that occasion. He was glad she was not here now. 

Eolasen quickly reached the middle of the room and bowed, low enough to show deference. The tension was strung tighter than a drawn bowstring. He rose solemnly and waited for acknowledgement. The seconds ticked by. Eventually the silence was broken by the priest in the middle, a man dressed in what appeared to be a cloth of woven gold.

“Eolasen of Mythal’s temple. Keeper of the Archives and Protector of Her Realm. Teacher and Mentor to those who seek knowledge. Twelfth General to Mythal in the War against the Pillars of the Earth. Truth-seeker and Humble Servant. You come to us today by urgent request, claiming that it is of ‘paramount importance’ you speak with us. By insisting upon this meeting, you defy our laws and traditions. You disrespect this sacred place. On what grounds do you bring such dishonor?”

Eolasen stifled an urge to leave, willing his disobedient legs to stay still. It could have been worse. Instead he gave another bow. “I beg forgiveness in light of such grave offenses. I would not dare sully holy ritual if it were not for the safety of the subjects of Mythal.” Eolasen rose again. “Unfortunately, time is of the essence. It has come to my attention that several spirits of increasing strength and temperament have come into existence within the lands of Mythal’s reach. Spirits that have shown increasing resistance and fortitude toward acceptance and comradery. Sprits that normally would have sought us, are now showing increasing resilience toward the idea of partnership.”

“Is this vital meeting to announce your retirement Eolasen?” The elf on the left, a man who appeared the most agitated out of the trio, interrupted Eolasen’s speech. “Are you here to tell us that you no longer feel capable of performing your duties here at the temple?” 

Eolasen ignored the jab. “I am well-aware of my capabilities as curator for Mythal’s land. As such, I hope that my word is taken with utmost seriousness, as senior guardian of this temple.”

The man swimming in gold waved off the stewing man on the left, halting him from another ill-placed barb. “No one doubts your competence Eolasen. As one of the oldest servants of Mythal we acknowledge your wisdom in these matters. However, we are merely having difficulties realizing your intentions and the gravity you are trying to impress. There is no reason to suspect that there is anything out of the norm.”

“To the untrained eye, perhaps.” Eolasen risked the biting remark. “However, there is reason to suspect there is cause for concern. A few of my more talented students are currently investigating a spirit of Ingenuity that refuses to answer questions. Recently, a promising initiate was so impacted by a Rage demon that she almost attacked me. And just several days ago, I received a report about two slaves from one of the eastern work sites. They have reports of attempting to subdue a lesser spirit, only for it to lash out and free their halla. Not maim or kill, but intentionally free the beast.” Eolasen paused, letting the words sink in. “I believe that there are certain factors at play here and unless we address the concerns, we are looking at a natural disaster with the potential to severely impact the region.”

The middle priest appeared amused. “What do you suggest we do to address the matter Eolasen?”

“If we were to fully address the risk the issue presents? I would highly recommended that we have all labor camps retreat to a centrally defendable position with several capable guardians, and a contingency of sentinels from the temple assigned to combat any potential threats. I would remain here in hopes of addressing the problem.” 

The middle priest finally broke out in laughter as Eolasen finished. “Is that all? Perhaps we could halt all projects on this side of the hemisphere as well! You ask so much on the basis that your students are unable to manage their duties? That a few slaves lost their halla? Perhaps we are right to worry about your abilities Eolasen.” The man on the left chuckled alongside with his colleague at that comment. 

The high priest on the right, a woman with tightly pursed lips, finally spoke, “You must forgive our skepticism Eolasen, but you speak mostly on conjecture. Have you no proof besides what you have already stated?”

Eolasen couldn’t resist a swallow before he spoke. The moment that would determine if the issue were to be addressed. “Yes.”

The woman managed to purse her lips farther, her mouth seemingly disappearing into her face. “Well?”

“It appears that the known births of these more powerful spirits coincide with visits to the area by Mythal.” The words hung in the air and the bowstring snapped.

All three priests immediately began to shout, incoherent insults from the man on the left and rants from the woman about the impossibility of the issue. The man in gold managed to yell over the other two and addressed Eolasen, his face as purple as a newly scrubbed beet. 

“You tread Mythal’s holy grounds and spread your web of deceit and trickery!” Spittle flew from the priest’s lips in his outrage. “You dare to accuse Her of what no elf could possibly realize! To bear spirits into this world!” 

“I said no such thing.” Eolasen attempted to keep his voice calm, his tone low and even. “I merely pointed out that there are certain factors at play here that we cannot hope to understand at this time. If you would not grant me my initial request, I would ask to be granted several legions to assist me to investigate the incidents that occurred outside of temple grounds.”

“You will be granted no such thing!” Luminous cloth swirled around the elf as he stamped his foot. “No such thing!” With that, the man swirled and stalked out of the room, slamming the doors as he left. The woman followed him hurriedly as he marched away. The man on the left turned as if to follow but stopped as he scoffed at the man below, his incandescent vallaslin contorting as his face turned to a scowl. “You’ve lost too many friends here Eolasen. You might count your days outside of uthenera as numbered.” With that, he marched after his fellow priests farther into the temple and the doors flew shut behind him.

Eolasen was now alone in the hall. The room no less beautiful after the mockery of what just occurred. Eolasen wished that he could shape it to his will, raze this festering place to the ground and ensure nothing would grow here again. A testament to arrogance for eons to come. If only. Eolasen turned to leave, his footsteps echoing against the floor once again. It was only as he was left alone in the room that he heard a dim sound. He paused, momentarily confused, trying to make out its origin. It was only as he wondered if he imagined the noise before he heard it again. This time, he clearly identified it as a faint cough. 

 

*********

There were a few words Nehna could use to describe her current predicament, the best being “completely,” and “fucked.” There were a few other choice phrases that ran through her mind when Lahlas opened her damned mouth but they all paled in comparison. Not that it mattered. The best part about being completely fucked is that you didn’t have to worry about it too long. Nehna figured she’d be lucky to live through the end of the day. 

Both women were still crouched in their original positions, still as mice as they waited agonizingly for Eolasen to leave the hall, their eyes upward as if they expected someone to appear above the grate at any second. Eventually they heard him begin to walk again, toward the exit, and the great doors opened for his departure. Soon after, the doors slowly grinded shut again and no sound came from the room above.

At the silence, Lahlas turned to Nehna in desperation, tears welling in her eyes. “Nehna, I’m so sorry. I’ve been holding it back this entire time, and I just couldn’t anymore! There’s so much dust and I’m so thirsty, and I swear to you I tried to stop it-” The frantic elf’s pleading came out in hurried whispers, it was only as her pitch began to rise that Nehna held a single finger over her lips. She moved closer to Lahlas, putting both hands on the trembling girl’s shoulders.

“Lahlas,” a small voice in Nehna’s head, almost separate from her own consciousness, was proud of how calm she sounded. “We’re going to get caught. When we leave this tunnel, someone’s going to be waiting on the other side.” A small whimper escaped from Lahlas, and the fat tears welling in her wide eyes began to fall. Nehna offered a consoling smile. “Shhh, none of that now. You’ll be fine, but it’s important that you listen, and do exactly as I say.” Lahlas nodded violently. 

“Good. They’re going to take us and question us separately. When they do, you need to tell them that you were jealous of Fisara and that you wanted to find out why Eolasen took her out on an expedition and not you. You found out through gossip that Eolasen was meeting here today to possibly discuss the trip. You heard that I knew how to get into the temple. You don’t know how I know, but you told me to take you. By the time we got here, the priests and Eolasen were yelling at each other. Besides some insults, you couldn’t really make out what they said.” Nehna spoke slow, careful that Lahlas didn’t miss a word. “Everything else, you can keep the same. This is really important Lahlas, you need to say everything exactly as I told you. Do you understand?”

“No.” Lahlas licked her dry lips, her face scrunched in confusion. “Why do I need to lie? And why are you making it sound like this was all my idea, this was your plan!” Lahlas shoved Nehna’s hands off her shoulders, confusion replaced by anger. “I’m going to get kicked out if I tell them that story.” Her voice became stubborn. “I’m telling the truth.” 

“Lahlas,” Nehna tried to offer the same consoling smile but failed miserably. “Do you realize what will happen if we tell them that it was my idea we came here? What will happen if they learn that I have a detailed map of the temple grounds and how to get into restricted sections? That I know where and when temple officials meet, and I know how to access the areas?” It was Nehna’s turn for quiet hysterics. “They’re going to know that I can’t have possibly figured this out all on my own, that I’ve had help from other slaves. They will torture the information out of me Lahlas, and I won’t be able to hold back names in the end. That’s if they even care to find out the truth. They might just wipe out the entire block I live in. If they’re really worried, they might just kill every slave in this place. Have you ever seen what happens when nobles think that there’s an uprising Lahlas? Do you want to see every man and woman marked in black killed?” 

“What about your map?” Lahlas’s voice was weak. “We can use it to find another exit out of here, find a way that nobody knows about.” The suggestion trailed off as Nehna let out a bitter laugh. 

“I didn’t bring it Lahlas, in case of something like this. The sentinels would have found it on me and then nothing you or I said would have made a damn bit of difference. It wouldn’t matter even if I did have it. There’s only two ways out of here, the way we came in and a backup tunnel. They’ll know about both. We’re going to be caught. The only choice that matters is that you can help me save dozens, maybe hundreds of lives, or you can try to save your own skin.”

Lahlas didn’t respond, lowering her eyes in response. Nehna waited patiently. She had choices if Lahlas didn’t agree, but she didn’t want to use them. The short knife she kept hidden at the front of her waistband bit into her skin at the thought. Eventually, Lahlas met Nehna’s eyes, her own gaze hard. The tears that had fallen earlier cut clear marks through the grime smeared on her face. 

“Why did you bring me Nehna? And don’t say it’s because we’re friends or you like me, or whatever else you could say that wouldn’t hurt my feelings. Tell me the truth.”

Nehna was briefly surprised that in the face of Lahlas’s expulsion from the temple, her own inevitable death, and the possible massacre of hundreds of people that this would be the issue Lahlas took point with. Lahlas’s sullied hands balled up into fists, thin strands of hair falling across her eyes. The mousy girl didn’t bother to brush them aside, waiting for Nehna’s reaction. 

“Cause it would look bad if I was caught alone, or with another slave.” Nehna shrugged her shoulders. “Happy? Yes, you were going to be my excuse to make sure that everyone I know and love wouldn’t be slaughtered.” It had been the first rule Nehna had been taught, when others had shown her how to gather information, how to be discrete. You get caught, don’t drag everyone else down with you. It was the reason she had brought Lahlas, though the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Nehna. Still, there was a slight sting at the accusation. That Lahlas didn’t think Nehna viewed her as a friend. As far as friends could be between a noble and a slave. Friends didn’t use each other though, and Nehna knew that the sarcasm dripping from her voice didn’t help. 

To Lahlas’s credit, the normally expressive elf didn’t flinch at the revelation. “It’s my fault they know we’re here. I’m not going to let innocent people die because of my mistake. I’m not a monster.” 

Nehna breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you Lahlas.” The dusty elf gave a curt nod in return, and gestured Nehna to lead the way back. 

The crawl back felt much shorter, though Nehna knew she was going slower than before. Every inch bringing her closer to armed guards and pointed spears, her dulled limbs treacherously dragging her to the end. Nehna had always wondered what happened after death. Spirits would return, if not changed and with no memories of their former selves. Was it the same for elves? Would she be born anew somewhere else in the world? Nehna hoped so. She would like another chance at life. 

After one last bend, sunlight broke through the dim haze of the tunnel. Fresh air blowing toward the women, both of whom closed their eyes at the sensation as sweat dried on their skin. Despite Nehna’s recent admission, Lahlas reached forward and squeezed Nehna’s ankle. The gesture was reassuring, and Nehna was thankful, finding the strength to continue forward. When she reached the end, the full force of the evening sun blinded her with its brilliance and she shielded her eyes against the dying rays of the day as she stood. Her back and legs ached, and her heart threatened to leap out of her chest, waiting for harsh voices and raining blows. When neither came, she squinted out against the light to find no one there, save a solitary man sitting on a nearby log at the edge of the lake, admiring the sunset through the trees. 

The tall elf stood at the women’s arrival and turned to face them. Nehna’s jaw tightened and Lahlas gasped in surprise as Eolasen raised one thin eyebrow quizzically at the filthy elves. An amused expression on his face. “My, my,” the finely dressed elf rose and walked toward the women. “Haven’t you two been busy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoys their weekend!


End file.
